


Drink and Make Mare-y

by Sexy Mothman Tarsi (mothman_tarsus)



Category: Corruption of Champions
Genre: Body Modification, Brainwashing, Breeding, F/M, Loss of Virginity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-15
Updated: 2017-07-15
Packaged: 2018-11-08 14:54:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11083929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mothman_tarsus/pseuds/Sexy%20Mothman%20Tarsi
Summary: There are worse beings out there than minotaurs.





	Drink and Make Mare-y

**Author's Note:**

  * For [praxyn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/praxyn/gifts).



You hate the mountains.

The last time you were there, a minotaur splattered on you, his copious fluids splattering all over your face and tits even as you tried to stab him where his greater height makes things easy, and it was only your quick feet that kept you from disgracing yourself right there, the scent overpowering you with need. It took many washes for you to feel able to put your clothes back on, and you're grateful for the stream that runs by your camp. Much safer than the lake with its wretched green slime, corrupting the goo girls, and you worry they'll eventually get to you, too.

Mareth is a hell of a land, and you make your way to the one place you can learn to protect yourself as you try to forget how much you **hate** the mountains. Some of that gunk got into your mouth, and you just can't stop thinking about it! The goopy texture, the salty flavor, that overwhelming need for more of it even if it means letting the monsters do what they will -- you wipe your face and reaffirm your oath to never let that happen again. 

Archery. Archery will help.

The farm is much like it always is, peaceful with only the cows and the few people who work there for company, and you're nervous as you look for Kelt. He ordered you to strip and practice like a centaur the last time you saw him and you refused, unwilling to degrade yourself for even the saner beings of Mareth; he might hold a grudge. But there's no way to know without trying, and your skin prickles as you enter his barn.

"What are _you_ doing here?" Kelt says once you're too close to ignore. "Strip or get out; I don't have time for prissy biped bitches."

You do, and you're quick about it, too, desperate for a lesson, but he looks at you and shoves you into the wall in one smooth motion, his weight braced on the wall with one powerful leg as he bears down on you, and you glance at his hoof and firmly away. "Why the change of heart?" he says, close enough you can smell his breath, and it reminds you of the minotaurs, strong and musky. He could kill you and he wouldn't even have to mean it. 

Minotaurs, you tell him: you want to protect yourself from minotaurs.

He snorts at that. "Did they get you?" he asks, uncaring, and your whole body flushes as you defend yourself. Of course not, you say, and he laughs as he leers at your exposed groin.

You're pure there, too, not that you'd tell him that, and he lowers his hoof, slamming you still with his arm before you can get away. He doesn't drop his foreleg all the way, though: he wipes the dirt off on your stomach and then grazes his hoof on your crotch, huffing as you recoil. "Humans," he scoffs: "fragile pussies, the lot of them."

Yeah, actually, your pussy _is_ fragile, and you try to elbow him off. It's no good, though: he's built like a horse, and he simply catches your arm and stares you down, his scent rancid in a way you'll never get off. He holds you there for a long moment, and then a moment longer, letting you breathe him in, and your heart beats faster from more than just fear as he gropes your breasts with his calloused hands, certain that you won't be stupid enough to run when he could break you in a second. "Not my type," he decides, throwing you aside, and you bolt, no matter that you left your clothes.

But a centaur's a hell of a lot faster than a human, and you hear him coming for you as you're scooped up and over his shoulder like a bag of peppers, completely helpless. "Marble!" he calls, and you pause in pummeling him uselessly to perk up. Now there's a sight for sore eyes!

She must've been close, because you barely hear her rustling before you're pressing your legs together and hoping you're not mooning her too much. "Kelt, what are you doing with the poor dear?" she says, and she sounds tired.

Kidnapping me, you say, and he slaps your bare ass right in front of her. The nerve of him! 

"This little bitch is a thief," he says, and she titters. You try to object, but it's your word against his, and she's not helping: you keep trying to explain, but the sick bastard merely spreads your legs with his other hand and rams two fingers up your cunt, wiggling just enough you feel something break as you cry out, and he laughs, wiping your juices (and probably some blood) on your thighs as you knee him. "You still got that bova shit?" he asks her, while you try to injure somebody with abs you could bounce a rock off of. "A weak little pussy like this one ought to be a real cow."

"I don't have time to teach her to use my hammer," she says back, and a tone like that means he's in for it. Please, stop him, you plead, but it's no go. 

"Cows like livestock, not like staff," he amends reluctantly, and she huffs acknowledgement, thinking about it as your heart sinks.

"Well, I do have some," she says, and the sick bastard trots off to presumably follow her as you give up on that front, resigned to smelling his overwhelming sweat. It's better than thinking about your circumstances, but the sheer masculinity of it all keeps drawing your attention back to your sore cunt, and it hurts in a rather different way, too.

He stops when you think you're outside Marble's house and tosses you down into the dirt, pinning you with one of those terrifying hooves right on your spine. "Present, bitch," he orders, entirely capable of murder, and you move onto your arms and knees, though you stop short of raising your ass. You still have some standards. 

You tell him that you're a virgin, and he won't be able to get what he wants from you. It's not a matter of threatening you more, you add quickly: it's that he's **huge** and you -- aren't. It won't fit; you don't even think you could get your _mouth_ around it, and he laughs.

"Learn quickly, then," he says, moving his foot and then slapping your ass, and he grabs your thigh to pull it up, nudging your legs spread with a hoof. You try to remember to breathe, and remind yourself that Whitney is a reasonable woman: she can't possibly let him do this, but he straddles you anyway, his forelegs pillars of muscle in your peripheral vision as something thick and blunt butts against your ass.

His cock, you realize in horror, and he thrusts too high and too low and then brushes your pubis, his precum slicking you up where you're already damp, but not **that** damp. "Maybe you're right," he says conversationally: "maybe you _are_ too small, and you ought to be a minotaur's fuck cow instead. How's that sound, little girl? You wanna be bait?"

No, please, you say. You know you're not getting out of this, but you've heard _stories,_ and being a breeder reduced to getting fucked by your own children for one more load is one of the worst things you can imagine. 

"No? Then the ass?" he asks, leaning forward all the way to look you in the eyes. His grin is terrifying, even upside down, and you shiver. "You're too small yet to be a filly, much less a centaur breeding mare. I can save you until you've grown."

But this is as big as humans **get!** That's no obstacle on Mareth, though, and some of the things you've seen -- you don't want to ever be like the milk slave. You can handle it, you promise. 

"A delicate little thing like you? Pah! _Show me,_ " he says, and you do. You turn and reach behind you to that thick member, as bestial as the monster that it's attached to, and your resolve wavers. It's **huge,** and that head -- you'd have better luck fucking a fence post, but you're not sure you wouldn't have to if you backed out now. You line it up as best you can, your legs splayed to try to make it easier, but you have to hold yourself open to even try to get it in. If you could just -- oh, this isn't a good angle, and you stick your own fingers in to try to stretch your cunt as he waits, not patient but clearly enjoying waiting for you to figure it out.

Not enough for you to test it, though, and he explains his made-up version of events to the farmer as you judge yourself as ready as you can be and try easing the cock head in. The stretch hurts even with you taking your time about it, but as soon as it pops into place, he thrusts forward, too much, too soon, and you wail, clenching hard.

"Tight," he says to you, appreciatively. "Well, slut? What do you want?"

You want to go home, you think, but that's not what you say. Please, you say instead, trying to catch your breath, trying to adjust to the sensation of being full to breaking and you've only just started. He moves back just a little and you yelp again, all of it touching places you've never had touched like this and it's so much and you want more and you want to never do this again. 

Fuck me, you say, your voice cracking, and his hindquarters pull back, the thick head pulling you with it unwillingly, though you don't want him out, either. But it's not up to you, is it.

"If I wanted a fuck, I'd talk to a professional," he snaps. "What do you want, bitch? What makes you think you're worthy of my time?"

Please, you say, and he moves again, just enough to keep you from getting used to it and you want more and you want less and you push back onto his cock so you'd at least get it over with, but he moves enough you'd have to pull him into you and -- you try, but he stomps again and you submit. Please, sir, you try, and a pleased sound reverberates through his massive body at the title: please take me. Please let me be useful.

"And what is a cunt like you good for?"

Breeding.

That's what you're for, and you tell him so, crying in hope that you'll be good enough to protect from the ravenous hordes, and he grunts again, this time pressing forward to give you his cock almost gently. It's still too much -- _anything_ would be too much, and you didn't choose something easy for your first time -- but you use one hand to stroke his member and guide it and the other to touch yourself, your clit in need of all it can get as you try to use your body for what it's best at. You want to be a worthy cum dump, you tell him, even if you're not a centaur, and each thrust from him sends your whole body shaking.

"This toy won't be a distraction," he assures Whitney, fucking you slowly, and you're so glad: he might actually keep you, even if you can only take a few inches and you're not even close to engulfing his medial ring. You'll get better, you promise, impaling yourself as best you can, and when your efforts flag as your attention gets stuck on your clit and your own pleasure, he thrusts hard enough to knock you face first into the dirt, ruining your momentum. But it's his momentum that matters, his flare holding you full enough you couldn't get him off if you wanted to, and you push back as he pushes forward and hits just the right spot for you to orgasm, your pussy clenching around his enormous cock painfully as he keeps going and bastes your insides with spunk, warm and thick and bringing with it true ecstasy, enough you even forget why you came here.

He stays there as you breathe heavily, his own sides heaving, and you feel the flare shrink but not enough for him to slip out. He's holding you full, you realize, and you glance at your belly and it already looks bigger. 

"Here, girl," a familiar face says, though your memory is too hazy to remember who. "Drink this," and she holds it up to your mouth as you gulp it down. Your master waits for you to finish the bottle before snorting again, and you hastily remove yourself from his person, white goop dripping down your thighs no matter that you try to hold it in. The being in front of you kneels down and takes you into her lap, her lush bosom an incredible headrest.

"That's an improvement," he says, looking down at you, and he squeezes your tits. They're fuller than they were, you think, and he takes another bottle from the women and feeds it to you, his ears flicking in interest as your boobs expand and start leaking fluid and your mind numbs more than it had. You've got a butt worthy of your stallion, you think, and when he tires of speaking to the women, you follow him.

"I think I'll call you Bessie," he decides finally, and you kneel in wait for the ear clipper.


End file.
